Page 51 of Double Obsession

He sighed. She placed another bite in his mouth and this time he swallowed.

“I told you I am an excellent cook,” she said.

“Water? Please.”

She put the soda to his lips. He tilted his chin back and drank greedily.

She hated force-feeding him a hot dog, but she had worked so hard on the dinner, and Clark had said he needed to eat more. Although she loved Hunter Stone with all of her heart, she wasn’t in the mood for a “hangry” patient.

He had eaten about two-thirds of the hot dog when his eyes closed and he fell asleep. He hadn’t touched his chips or apple.

Staring at his underwear, Arkansas prayed for the strength to not peek underneath them. It was those disgusting pictures and crude messages making her think sexual things. She shook him awake. “Our dinner,” she reminded him.

His voice was so soft she barely made out the words. “...good cook and momma. Medicine. Water. Please…don’t feel well.”

She lowered him to the floor and sat beside him. While devouring her plate of food, she told him about all the groceries she had purchased. For the time being, she would forgive him for fading in and out of sleep since he was such good company.

Chapter Twenty-One

Hunter awoke on the basement floor with his head on a pillow and the quilt from his bed covering him. When he tried to roll from his side to his back, the hands tied behind him acted like a doorstop, and he teetered on his side like a pregnant beetle.

Moments later, the memories of his nightmarish evening flooded in. Praying his stalker hadn’t killed it, he searched for the gray cat he’d tried to save.

Even though his voice was weak, when Hunter called to the animal, it limped to him. Dried blood coated the poor thing’s fur, and a piece of duct tape was wrapped around its tail.

“How about I call you Fluffy?”

The cat plopped down and curled up beside him.

“We have a lot in common. It looks like we pissed off the same woman, and we’re both being held together by half-assed first aid.”

The cat tilted his head and meowed.

“Fluffy, I don’t intend to let either of us die down here,” he promised.

The cat closed his eyes and purred.

It took Hunter forever to kick off the wet quilt. Then, using the wall for leverage, he pushed himself to a seated position. Round and round his brain whirled. He assumed he’d suffered two concussions and severe blood loss. And if his sweat-covered brow was any indication, his shoulder wound was infected. To add insult to injury, he was probably dehydrated because following his three beers, ABC-psycho-cannon had plied him full of soda instead of water.

The angle of the sunlight shining into the room indicated it was around ten in the morning. Since most of the window was underground, someone would have to plaster their face against the top quarter of the glass to see him. And even if he screamed at the top of his lungs, no one could hear him.

Quick head movements made him reel as if he were on a Tilt-A-Whirl, so Hunter slowly perused the room as he planned his escape.

The woman may have matched him in stature, but there was no way she was as strong as him. If he could lure her close, he could squeeze her head between his thighs and strangle her.

He sighed.

If he freed his hands and ankles from the ropes, he could wait in a dark corner. When she walked past, he would use his fist to smash her in the face—over and over again—until he knocked her rotten teeth down her throat. Beating the shit out of a woman was kosher if she was a knife-wielding psycho who had you enslaved in your own basement, right?

He rubbed his hands together, attempting to create slack in the rope. Ten minutes later, he had made no headway. In fact, the damn shackles had tightened, and his shoulders and back ached.

On to plan three. He would suck up his pride, roll onto his belly, and scoot to his freedom. After sliding down the wall, he rested and comforted his new friend. “It’s gonna be okay, Fluffy. If worse comes to worst, my buddy Clark will be home in a few days.”

Despite soothing the cat, panic took hold of him. Could he survive three days with an infection near his heart? What if an unsuspecting Clark walked through the front door and she stabbed him? Were Buddy and Lizzie okay? Would the psycho chop him into little pieces before anyone realized he was gone? Why in the hell had he left his cell phone on the coffee table?

He rolled onto his belly and propped his body weight on his elbows. The weakened muscles in his injured shoulder quivered before giving out, sending his face to the floor with a smack.

“Fuck!” he groaned.